Wicked Jealous: A Love Story (9 page)

“You are?” Did he have to look so
relieved
?

I nodded. Because Nicola said I had one of those faces where everything showed, I tried extra hard to look convincing, but seeing as how by that time my father was in the process of turning his iPhone back on, it didn’t matter anyway.

“I’m glad you came to your senses,” Nicola said the next day at lunch, yelling over Castle Height’s resident treehugger, rally organizer, and all-around protester Wally Twersky’s daily rendition of “We Shall Overcome” on his guitar a few tables away. “And not just because that means I’ll get to see your brother a lot more.” She cringed as Wally got louder. “What’s he trying to overcome this week?”

“I think I heard him tell Ajara Monihan that it’s the unethical treatment of bunnies for cosmetic testing.”

“They do cosmetic testing at Castle Heights?! Where? In the chemistry lab?”

I shook my head. “No. Just, you know, unethical treatment of using them for testing in general.”

“Oh. Anyways, speaking of unethical treatment . . . now that we have a deadline on our hands, we really need to address
your
unethical treatment of that totally smoking bod you’ve got growing in that veggie/Zumba petri dish. Because BFFs don’t let BFFs show up at a houseful of college guys with a suitcase full of ratty old cargo pants being held up with safety pins and T-shirts that are way too big.”

As I looked down at my cargos, I had to admit she had a point. Even using the last hole of the belt I had to wear to keep them up, they were still big.

She grabbed my arm and turned me toward her and gave me an After-School Special look. “Simone, listen to me—you’re not the fat girl anymore, okay?”

I began to examine my left cuticle as if it contained all the secrets of the universe. I knew where she was going with this. She wasn’t talking about my weight—she was talking about how I still wanted to keep hiding from the world behind the invisible pane of glass that I felt kept me apart from people. Sometimes the glass was Windexed and was so clear I almost forgot it was there—like in gym class the week before, when Ananda Desai told me she liked my Olivia Newton John T-shirt. But sometimes it was dirty and covered with fingerprints and hard to see through, like when Marc Rabel said, “Here comes Cousin Itt,” under his breath as I passed him on my way to the board in trig class. It had been there for so long it was as if it had grown roots.

“Obviously, I already know how awesome you are,” Nicola went on. “But now it’s time that other people get to see that, too. And more importantly, that
you
do. And this is the perfect opportunity.”

I felt like I was in therapy again. And there wasn’t even a bowl of M&M’s around. I knew that there was some truth to what she was saying. Being That Weird Fat Girl meant I could hide out and not have to deal with people. The nickname hurt for a while, and yeah maybe at first I had been lying when I told myself I didn’t care. But the longer it went on, the more I got used to it—I really did stop caring, I think; it was easier to hide. Any whispers or mean comments just stopped touching me. My size became this armor—to protect me from people getting too close. Because they’d always end up disappointing or hurting you if you let them.

But as the weight started melting away, I didn’t feel happy or relieved or anything. I felt naked. Who was I if I wasn’t That Weird Fat Girl? I didn’t want to be invisible anymore, but the idea of actually being out there, in the world, with no protection, instead of hiding in dark movie theaters or in my room, was terrifying. My baggy clothes were the last bit of protection I had—wearing them I could at least
pretend
that I still had some armor against whatever was out there.

But still, Nicola was right. There was a difference between learning to swim in the shallow end while wearing water wings with the Zumba ladies and being thrown into a choppy, college boy–infested ocean.

Nicola put her hands on my shoulders. “I hate to tell you this, princess, but it’s time.”

If what she was talking about was what I
thought
she was talking about, I was in big trouble. “Do you mean—?”

She nodded. “Yup. The makeover part of the movie of your life. Complete with some nauseating up-tempo song sung by a pop star with a nose ring.”

I cringed. I
hated
those things. The makeover montage was so corny. It was one of the reasons why I preferred indie and foreign films.

“You know, you might actually end up having fun,” Nicola said.

I gave her a look.

“I mean, obviously it could be a total disaster, too,” she went on.

That was better.

“But you have a fifty-fifty chance.”

I sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

It was hard to think positively, though. I wasn’t exactly a happy-ending kinda girl.

Nicola took out a piece of notebook paper and pen. “Operation Falcon,” she announced as she wrote.

“What’s Operation Falcon?” I asked.

“It’s what we’re going to call the makeover. It makes it sound all top secret. Like some government thing. Plus, in case I lose this piece of paper, no one will be able to link you with it.” She looked up from the page to find me reaching into my left eye and taking out my contact. Gross to do at a lunch table, I know, but Nicola was used to it. Even after three years, I could never get them in right.

“That is disgusting. Number one,” she announced as she picked up the pen, “glasses.”

“Okay, don’t they normally go the other way—girl with glasses gets contacts? I’m already not liking this Operation Eagle thing.”

“It’s Operation
Falcon
.”

“Same thing.”

As she went back to making her list, I sighed. I didn’t have to be psychic to know this was going to be a very big makeover.

four

“Hey, Simone,” Brad said when we walked into One Person’s Garbage the next afternoon. “I got some great old evening bags this weekend from this estate sale in the Palisades of this woman who was an extra in a Bruce Willis movie.”

“Nope,” Nicola said. “No purses. No band tees. Today, Bradley, we are on a mission.”

I so did not like the sound of that. And I especially did not like it when she marched me over to the dresses.

“Okay, nowhere on that Operation Cardinal list did it say anything about
dresses
,” I said.

“Operation
Falcon
. And it said ‘new wardrobe.’ Dresses are considered wardrobe.” Flipping through the racks, she began to grab things. A black sundress with white polka dots. A blue Chinese silk one with a slit up the leg. A red one with little bows on shoulders. “Ooh—this is
fun
!” she squealed. “It’s like playing Barbies!”

“But you hate Barbies,” I said as she loaded up my arms with the stuff. “You did your oral presentation last year on why the Glamorista Barbie was responsible for setting the feminist movement back twenty years.”

“Yes, but you can be the
cool
Barbie—the one with a brain and killer taste in music.”

She walked toward the rack—the one that held the dress on it. “No! Not the blue dress!” I yelled.

“How come?”

“I can’t. Not yet. Let’s start with some other ones first.” If I tried on that blue dress and it didn’t fit, I’d feel awful. Unworthy. It was better just to stay away from it. If you didn’t have any expectations, you couldn’t get hurt.

“Okay, okay,” she grumbled.

When my arms were so full I could barely see over the top, she pushed me into a dressing room. Well, into the closet with the tacked-up sheet that made it so that the people on Abbot Kinney Boulevard couldn’t see you in your underwear. I never tried things on when I was shopping. I didn’t need to see how shlubby I looked. I turned toward the window and tried to gauge whether I could haul myself up and out to escape.

“And don’t think about climbing out that window,” she called out. “Because I will hunt you down using my brand-new Stalker GPS app on my iPhone.”

I sighed as I started to take off my cargo pants and New Order T-shirt. When the moment of truth came—the one with a lot of pasty naked skin staring back at me—I looked down at the ground. I was somewhat of an expert at that. In fact, I could even not look at myself in the mirror as I was putting on mascara (for the most part I was anti-makeup, but when you were as pale as I was, it was wear mascara or have your face completely melt away).

Although with Hillary in the house, it was next to impossible to escape the mirrors. They were all over the place now. But as I pulled the polka-dot sundress on, my eyes landed on the small mirror by accident. Weirdly enough, when I saw myself I didn’t cringe. Instead of focusing on everything about myself I didn’t like, I saw things I
did.
Like my nose, and the way it was a little crooked from when I was ten and it got broken when I mistakenly crossed Tim Klasky’s path as he swung a baseball bat, even though I had
said,
“Tim, don’t swing yet, okay?”

And my neck, which was on the long side but not so long that I looked like a giraffe. And my arms, which, ever since I had started Zumba-ing, had gone from these blobby sausage things to where you could see I had a shoulder, and then a tricep, and then a forearm. It wasn’t like I was going to sit there all day and admire myself. While I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was pretty, I had to admit I was kind of . . . interesting looking. Especially now that I had cheekbones.

But while I may have been interesting looking, from the amount of time it took me to zip the zipper (and only halfway up at that), one thing I wasn’t was a size 8.

“Let’s see,” Nicola called out.

Holding my breath, I walked out and stood in front of the full-length mirror while she and Brad checked me out.

Me. In a polka-dot sundress. With a poufy skirt. Who knew I could look so . . .

“Okay, you look like a dancer in one of those Disneyland shows,” Nicola said as she pushed me back toward the dressing room.

“Thank you. That’s exactly what I was going to say,” I said as I exhaled.

“Well, it
did
belong to a woman who played a teacher in that Shia LeBeouf Disney show,” Brad said.

“You know, I really think I should just stick to pants. In fact, I’ve decided I’m ready to move to jeans,” I said. “And I found this great Echo and The Bunnymen T-shirt on eBay the other day. It’s very colorful, so that will help with my look—”

She shook her head. “Nope. We’re not leaving here without something that shows your legs.”

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way and sue me for sexual harassment, but you do have lovely calves,” Brad said.

I smiled. “Thanks, Brad.” Coming from a gay man that meant a lot.

Nicola reached for a flowery shift and shoved it toward me. “Try this one.”

As I looked at the tag, I wrinkled my nose. “This Lilly Pulitzer person sure likes pastels.”

“It belonged to Betty White’s stand-in back in her
Golden Girls
days,” Brad said.

I put it back and reached for a simple black sleeveless dress with a flared skirt. “What about this one?”

“That’s one of our more famous pieces,” Brad said proudly. “It belonged to an actress who played a villain in an episode of the original
Charlie’s Angels
.”

“I dunno. Looks a little boring,” Nicola replied. “Or like you’re going to a funeral.”

I shrugged and looked at the tag. “Yeah, but it’s a size ten, so maybe I’ll be able to actually breathe,” I said as I shut the dressing room curtain.

Not only could I breathe, but I could zip the sucker up myself.

As I walked out, they both stared at me.

“It looks that dumb, huh?”

“No. You look amazing!” Nicola gasped.

“I think you look like you should be sitting in a café on the Left Bank of Paris,” Brad said.

I brightened. “Paris? Really?”

He nodded. “Yes. Drinking an espresso while some painter professes his undying love to you and apologizes for the time you walked in on him making out with the nude model he was sketching.”

As I turned toward the mirror, I couldn’t help but smile. It was the perfect dress for me. Simple, but elegant. Sophisticated, but not snobbily so. And the contrast between the dress and my pale skin and my lips was pretty cool.

“So what do you think?” asked Brad.

I slowly turned around so I could get the full effect. “I think I look like . . . such a
girl
.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

I shrugged. “Not so bad, I don’t think.”

I felt so girly that I half expected myself to start giggling. Which, if that happened, I’d have to give Nicola permission to shoot me.

Right then, the Edith Piaf song
La Vie en Rose
came through the iPod speakers.

“Is that a sign or is that a sign?!” squealed Nicola. “Wait—that
is
French she’s singing in, right?”

We nodded.

She walked over to the jewelry section. “It just needs a little something,” she said as she rummaged in a tray. She held up a giant gold snake bracelet. “How about this?”

“A
little
something? That’s the size of my entire forearm.” I wrinkled my nose. “Plus Hillary has something like that.”

“Forget it then.” She held up a long strand of pearls. “Can’t go wrong with pearls.”

“Yeah, if you’re going to some fancy cocktail party,” I replied. “Not to eleventh grade.”

She sighed. “I knew you were going to be difficult.”

I reached up and took out my contact. “I am not. But I’ll tell you what
is
difficult. These stupid contacts.” I sighed.

“Good thing ‘new glasses’ is part of Operation Falcon,” she replied.

Brad took out the tray of vintage eyeglass frames and placed them on the counter. He held out a pair of black-rimmed nerdish ones. “Try these.”

“Brad, we’re supposed to make her look hot,” Nicola said. “Not like a librarian.”

“Hey, I have some pictures of my mom wearing glasses like these,” I said as I put them on.

“Whoa. Color me wrong,” she said. “I think we just found the perfect accessory. Simone, you’re so . . .
you
!” she cried. “I mean, you were you before, but now it’s like you’re
you
you!”

With only one contact in, it was difficult to get the full effect, but I could vaguely make out that the glasses did indeed look good. Who knew the thing that made me
me
was a pair of nerd glasses? “But do I still look French?” I asked nervously. The French part really sold it for me.

“Yes,” Brad said, “but instead of a girl crying over her dumb painter boyfriend, now you look like an intellectual discussing philosophy at Café de Flore.” He smiled. “Like your namesake Simone de Beauvoir.”

I smiled. I liked that.

“You know, I don’t even think you need any jewelry now,” Nicola said. “The glasses are the perfect accessory. But shoes! We need shoes! I’m thinking. . . . red pumps,” she announced as Brad walked over to the shoe section.

“I’m thinking I’m way ahead of you,” he said, holding up a pair that, thankfully for me, weren’t too high. “These belonged to the actress who played Jaclyn Smith’s mother in a highly rated NBC miniseries back in the eighties,” he said proudly.

“Really?!” I asked excitedly.

“Who’s Jaclyn Smith?” Nicola asked.

I turned to her. “Um, Kelly Garrett, original
Charlie’s Angel
?” People may have considered me a bit of a snob because I liked French movies, but I also had a real thing for the original
Charlie’s Angels,
which was on TV back in the seventies. Especially Jaclyn Smith, who was the prettiest and nicest angel of them all.

“And they’re a—”

“Seven and a half? Yup,” said Brad as he handed them to me. I wondered if all gay men could tell a girl’s shoe size just by looking at them, or if Brad had a special gift.

“So what do you think?” Nicola asked as I slowly twirled around.

“I think . . . I might be able to get used to this,” I replied. Right before my left ankle gave out and I took down a mannequin that was wearing an outfit that had belonged to a woman who had played Cameron Diaz’s best friend in one of her dumber comedies.

By the time we left, I had bought (or, rather, my dad had bought me with his Amex) the black dress, the glasses, a red A-line swing dress, and a pair of black sandals with a tiny bit of a heel. (“They’re called kitten heels,” Brad explained, “but don’t ask me why. I’m gay, but it’s not like I have a PhD in fashion history.”) Out of guilt, I bought the glasses with cash and received a two-dollar Chinese paper fan in return.

“Why do I need a fan?” I asked Brad.

“Because I don’t have any singles in the register to give you as change,” he replied.

“Got it,” I nodded. Those types of things happened all the time in Venice.

Wearing my new dress and shoes (“Because you don’t have any experience wearing this kind of stuff, it’s going to take a lot of getting used to,” Nicola said), we made our way to an eyeglass store on Abbot Kinney so they could call my eye doctor and get the right lenses put in the vintage frames.

I turned to Nicola and smiled. “Do I have something in my teeth?” I whispered as the guy made the call.

“No. Why?”

“Because I feel like the guy keeps staring at me.”

“Um, maybe because you’re looking
hot
,” she hissed.

“Oh please. The only thing that’s hot is my face,” I said as I felt it turn red again. If they gave out grades for taking compliments, I’d get a D. It was definitely not one of my strong points.

The guy hung up the phone and walked back to us. “These are terrific frames,” he said with a very white smile.

“Thanks.”

“They’re vintage, right?”

I nodded.

“They don’t make them like this anymore.” Another smile. I wondered how often he bleached his teeth.

He was starting to creep me out. “Uh-huh. So, um, when will they be ready?”

“Three hours?”

“Thanks,” I replied, dragging Nicola to the door. “What was his problem?” I asked when we got outside.

“Dude, he was flirting with you!”

“He was?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

Okay, maybe getting used to it was going to take longer than I thought. “Can we have lunch now?” I asked hopefully. I was starving. I had no idea shopping could be such a cardio workout.

“Soon. But there’s one more thing we need to do first.”

“What?”

She pointed across the street at a hair place called Shear Genius.

I shook my long hair. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“But it’s part of the operation!” she cried.

I kept shaking it, to the point where the split ends whacked her in the eye.
“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“Why do you have to be so
stubborn
?”

“Do you know how long it took me to grow it to this point?!” I asked, holding it as far away from her as possible.

“Yeah, and do you know how long you’ve been hiding behind it?!”